


as simple and complicated as that

by YourPalYourBuddy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Lovers to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Night Stands, POV Alternating, technically i think this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27689975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddy/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddy
Summary: “Such a tease,” Oluransi says softly. He hasn’t bothered to get dressed. “Get over here, Birkholtz.”“Thought you were kicking me out,” he says, but he sits on the bed and leans down and kisses him untilI should go, you’re right you should go, no really I have to go.Holster says, “See you on the ice,” and Oluransi throws a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning. It smells like the cocoa butter he saw in the bathroom.“If you can keep up,” Oluransi says. His smile is a challenge Holster wants to meet.__________________Holsom AU wherein Holster goes to Samwell & Ransom goes to Harvard & they hookup during tourneys. Mildly smutty, mostly emotions, POV alternating
Relationships: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 155





	as simple and complicated as that

**Author's Note:**

> OG post for this idea is [here](https://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com/post/633000603230060544/ivecarvedawoodenheart-hmm-more-fics-about-ransom)

________________________________________________________

He pushes against Holster the way he did hours earlier and Holster laughs, letting himself be pressed into the bed. Oluransi follows mouth-first. When he does that — with his tongue, just like —  _ that _ — it’s like getting slammed into the boards all over again, and again, and again. He realizes moments later that he said this outloud. 

“Didn’t know you liked getting pushed around so much, Birkholtz,” Oluransi says. Holster’s name is like a slapshot in his voice. Holster catches his chin, tilts it up until Oluransi takes the hint, and kisses the taste of himself off his lips.

“I didn’t know — that you didn’t know — how much I like you like this,” Holster gasps, and Oluransi lightly bites his bottom lip before sitting up. Slowly, teasingly, Holster takes his time running his hands over every glorious inch of Oluransi’s hips and stomach and chest. Oluransi watches him with lowered eyes. He loops a finger in the chain Holster wears around his neck.

They both know what’s about to happen now; Holster thinks Oluransi can probably read him better than anyone else. On the ice it’s frustrating and often leads to Harvard stealing the puck before Holster can catch him again. Here, in these transient rooms, their clashing team sweats dropped in piles next to Oluransi’s backpack and Holster’s room key underneath the bland hotel art, here where they can finally finish the game they started when the puck dropped in the early evening, it’s so  _ nice. _

God, Holster loves tourneys. He presses against Oluransi’s shoulders.

“I like you here,” he says, and flips them. Oluransi smiles up at him lazily the way he does when he wants Holster to pin his hands against the sheets. 

Oluransi hooks his legs around Holster’s waist and pulls him closer. Holster holds his wrists above his head with one hand and with the other, trails his fingers down down down.

____________

The first time Holster saw Justin Oluransi, he was twenty-one and standing in a New York hotel lobby in his grossest Samwell Men’s Hockey t-shirt. Oluransi was leaning over the check in desk, elbow planted on the counter and palm resting against his chin, and when he laughed, Holster would swear he heard it from the entrance. 

“You good?” Lardo had asked, handing him his room key. Jack had looked over her shoulder toward reception and scowled.

“Yeah,” Holster had said then. “Just taking in the view.”

He’d ended that tourney with a bruise from a Dartmouth defenseman and a broken skate lace and a heavy glance from Oluransi at the start of their matchup against Harvard. He’d left the second tourney that season with a phone number and a hickey so noticeable Lardo didn’t even say anything when she passed him the fine jar on their ride home.

They keep it to tourneys. Regular season away games are too logistically complicated for them to see each other; Holster had offered once, after a game that was so heated and physical Holster had seriously considered sneaking them both into a spare locker room. It would’ve been impossible to explain why Holster was waiting in their lobby if any Harvard player had seen him. Or so Oluransi had told him between gasps in a spare locker room, hands tight in his hair as Holster sucked him off. 

It’s a quick look during a faceoff. A drink sent across the hotel restaurant, a room number written on the napkin. Holster, headphones bumping his carefully crafted pregame mix, watching Oluransi play from the bleachers and then Oluransi standing behind the glass while Holster fights in front of the net. And later, Oluransi underneath him and saying his last name in a honey stretched voice. It like sounds something wanting here in these sheets. 

Holster reaches over now, fingers curled into a fist, and Oluransi taps their knuckles together with a breathless sort of laugh. “Good fucking game, yeah?”

“The best,” Oluransi says. Holster’s getting used to him like this, stretched out and glowing like he’s laying in a sunbeam. Satisfied, with a private smile just for Holster. Oluransi rolls his eyes at whatever look Holster’s wearing and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Your captain’s gonna be looking for you, yeah?”

Holster can already hear his phone buzzing on the nightstand. “Looks like it.”

He dresses slowly, aware of both the vibrating and of eyes on him. Holster’s ass isn’t as fantastic as Oluransi’s, but it’s still worth showing off. He pulls on his sweatpants with his back to the bed.

“Such a tease,” Oluransi says softly. He hasn’t bothered to get dressed. “Get over here, Birkholtz.”

“Thought you were kicking me out,” he says, but he sits on the bed and leans down and kisses him until  _ I should go, you’re right you should go, no really I have to go. _

He sneaks one last look at Oluransi with his head resting against the headboard, noting with satisfaction that the sheets are a mess and that he’ll have to open the window before his roommate comes in to get the sex smell out. Oluransi looks wrecked. Holster likes him like that. He likes even more that he’s the one who did that to him.

Holster says, “See you on the ice,” and Oluransi throws a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning. It smells like the cocoa butter he saw in the bathroom.

“If you can keep up,” Oluransi says. His smile is a challenge Holster wants to meet.

____________________________________

“You alright? You’re walking funny,” Shitty says during breakfast. “Birkholtz looked like he gave it to you good in the second period.” 

“I can take it,” Ransom says mildly, buttering his waffle. There are very slight marks dotting his throat. “He chirps harder than he hits and his chirps aren’t that heavy.”

Peterson snorts so hard chocolate milk comes out of his nose. “Save that one for the ice tonight, might throw him off.” 

Shitty and Peterson delve into the logistics of throwing someone like Birkholtz off his game. Ransom, who knows better, focuses on his waffles. There was one tourney where some manager mixup left Birkholtz with a single room, and they ordered room service at 3 AM after a lengthy debate over the pros and cons of pancakes and waffles. They had decided to order both and split them down the middle. It’s one of those stupid memories that are hard to let go of.

Ransom knows what this is. They haven’t spoken about it in specifics, but he’s had enough things like this to know that it’s not serious; they only text the days leading up to tournaments, they only spend a few hours together, they don’t stay the night. He has a few numbers in his phone for this exact reason. He knows Birkholtz does too. They’ve had a few conversations about their sexual history and STD statuses. 

There’s a noise by the doorway and he looks up. A loud flood of dark red tumbles into the dining room, shouting about attics and roaches and strangers as they grab plates and slam coffee mugs around and yeah, okay, Ransom gets why Birkholtz says everyone at Samwell hates their hockey team. 

“Assholes,” Peterson mumbles. Shitty hums. Ransom laughs and Birkholtz turns and smacks into one of his teammates so hard he drops a whole bowl full of boiled eggs. 

Travers calls, “Smooth moves, Birkholtz,” and Birkholtz just flips him off. Even from here it’s easy to see that his cheeks are red. He’s nearly always red when Ransom sees him, on the ice or not. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything when he knows exactly how far down that redness goes.

“I’ve been told,” Birkholtz says. He meets Ransom’s gaze and winks.

____________

The day passes slowly. He plays Words With Friends with Shitty during one of Coach Mack’s impromptu lectures on puck handling. Travers sits them all down after lunch and makes them swipe through his Tinder, at once worried by and proud of the matches he’s gotten so far. Ransom watches TV in his room, Shitty snoring on the bed next to him and Peterson giving stupid commentary on how Gibbs and his team are handling their investigation, and does his best not to think about Birkholtz naked in bed on top of him. His best isn’t good enough.

He spins his phone on the bedside table, thinking. Texting Birkholtz now, with three hours to go to the game, could be dicey; a few rounds of whatever they’re doing has taught him that Birkholtz likes to watch  _ 30Rock _ before games. Messaging could fuck up his pregame ritual.

Ransom frowns and picks up his phone. He should  _ want _ to do that, right? He taps out a quick message and sends it without letting himself think about it too much.

His phone buzzes almost immediately.  _ the boys fined me for that kiss you left on my neck, _ it says.  _ think I owe you something. _

Ransom smiles despite himself. He says,  _ then pay me back another time. _

_ not on the ice? _

He types and erases four different responses before sending,  _ I have a better idea of how you can use your talents. _

Birkholtz leaves a slew of wide eyed emojis before saying,  _ wish it could be now. _

“Who’s got you smiling at your phone like that?” Shitty says suddenly. 

Ransom jumps and stuffs his phone under a pillow. “No one,” he says. Shitty raises his eyebrows. Ransom shrugs helplessly. “It’s no one. Really,” he adds, when Shitty continues to look unimpressed.

“I just want it on record that I don’t believe you,” Shitty says. He stands up in order to starfish more dramatically onto his bed. “Ugh.”

Ransom’s pillow buzzes. “What?” 

“Nothing.”

“Hm. I just want it on record that I don’t believe you.”

He watches as Shitty rolls over to face him and laughs when Shitty nearly falls on top of Peterson, who must’ve fallen asleep at some point. His snores are the reason Ransom hadn’t realized Shitty had woken up. They snore in nearly the same pitch.

“Okay,” Shitty says once he’s firmly back on the bed. “Okay, you know the Samwell manager?”

“The Asian woman with the short hair?” Shitty nods. “What about her?”

Shitty sits upright and tells him how he’s sort of had a baby crush on her for at least a season now and how she’s always so competent at what she does and how he kept tripping over his skates the first game they played when she was on staff and how, today, he saw her in the parking lot after Mack’s talk and how she was juggling a soccerball and schooling everyone, and passed to him when he called for it even though he was wearing a Harvard shirt and didn’t laugh too much when it clocked him in the head.

“It that why you have a red spot?” Ransom asks, and Shitty shakes his flow back so the red spot above his eyebrow is more visible. “I thought Herbie hit you with his stick again.”

Shitty says, “He did,” and tucks his hair behind his ear so Ransom can see another red spot on his jaw. 

Ransom hugs a pillow and pretends it doesn’t smell like Birkholtz’s conditioner. “Rough day.”

“Yeah. And I mean it’s not like something could happen anyway,” Shitty says. His voice is low enough that Ransom thinks he’s talking to himself. “Samwell and Harvard don’t get along, we all know that.”

Under his pillow, Ransom’s phone buzzes again. The messages read  _ was that weird to say? _ and  _ come to mine tonight? Jack’s getting food with his parents. _

“There you go again, smiling at your phone,” Shitty comments. 

He says, “Shut up,” and types  _ we’re leaving after the game. _

Birkholtz’s reply is immediate.  _ :( _

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He puts his phone down and starts tracking down his socks before he leaves another pair in another hotel by accident. 

“It’s on the dresser,” Peterson says sleepily. 

Ransom frowns. “What is?”

“The thingy.” Peterson waves his hand vaguely. “Necklace. Housekeeping noticed it.”

Birkholtz’s gold chain winks at him from the dresser. Fuck. 

He snatches it up immediately, the links cool and flowing like water in his hand, and tries to picture how it could’ve fallen off. It must’ve been when Birkholtz flipped him over. A phantom feeling whispers down his spine at the memory of it.

“Thanks,” he says. He clears his throat. “Been looking for that.”

Shitty studies him. “Didn’t know you wore a chain.”

“It’s a new thing I’m trying.”

Shitty hums the way he does when he doesn’t at all believe what he’s hearing, but he turns back to his pillows and  _ NCIS _ . Ransom takes a picture and, fingers shaking slightly, writes,  _ the classic “forgot my necklace” trick. I expected more from you. _

_ well, Oluransi,  _ Birkholtz writes back,  _ looks like you’ll have to stay. _

____________________________________

Two days of tourney play can drag on anyone. That’s what Holster tells himself when one of Harvard’s defensemen succeeds in trapping him against the boards. That’s what he tells Jack in the timeout before the second period, after Jack missed a shot he would’ve made if today was a normal day. It’s what he tells Johnson after Harvard gets past him the first time in the second period and after the second time in the third. It’s what he tells Rogers, the Harvard goalie, after he finally sinks a goal after forty-seven minutes of gameplay. He gets a faceful of goalie gear before Oluransi drags him away.

The ref’s giving Harvard a penalty that’s taking too long to sort out with the scorebox, so Holster stays standing next to Oluransi. It takes a moment before Oluransi lets go of his jersey. Some quiet thing under his lungs is sad he lets go.

“Don’t give Rogers a reason to punch you,” Oluransi says under his breath. “His girlfriend broke up with him. He wants a fight and we need him playing next week.”

“So push his buttons? Can do.”

Oluransi shoves him slightly and rolls his eyes. The ref flies in faster than blinking, but Holster waves him off. A not-so-small part of him wants Oluransi to do it again. He skates in close.

“Wish you weren’t going home after this,” he says, and the ref blows the whistle to tell them to set up for a faceoff. “I have one of those jacuzzi tubs in my room.”

They skate back together and Oluransi murmurs, “Locker room beneath you now?”

“You know what,” Holster says, “I don’t think it is.”

____________

Oluransi leaves in a post-orgasm haze and takes the barest hint of a hickey with him. Holster bites his tongue to stop from saying something inane like  _ text me when you get back. _ He almost sends it anyway — has it typed out and everything — before reminding himself that they don’t do that. There’s a line they don’t cross. He can’t tell if he wants to step over it.

He says good night to Jack and his parents and hits the UP button for the elevator. While he waits, he spills his chain from hand to hand and imagines how Oluransi would look wearing it. It’s a pretty picture in his head.

Lardo comes up next to him silently and he doesn’t say anything, just rests his elbow on her head like he always does. She pushes his arm off like she always does. 

“I’ll make you run laps,” she says, “watch yourself.”

She would. “You wouldn’t.”

She says, “I would,” and yawns. “I’m so glad we’re staying the night. Will never understand why Harvard drives back the same night.”

“Me neither,” he says. “It’s a shame.”

They don’t say anything for a moment. When the elevator comes, Lardo lifts her arms and Holster sighs, stooping down. She jumps on his back and all but melts against him. He walks them into the elevator. 

“You’re my favorite,” she says sleepily. 

He tilts his head until their cheeks smush together. “Bet you say that to all of us.”

“I don’t,” she says. Then: “I did say that to Jack though. Don’t tell Jack I said that to both of you.”

The elevator doors slide open on their floor. Holster bounces slightly, adjusting Lardo’s position on his back, and the hallway stretches before them in a sea of patterned blue and green carpeting. Holster likes hotels. Possibility seems to thrum in the electrical wiring. If he’s quiet, he can almost hear it.

He likes them less when Oluransi’s gone. He drops Lardo off at her door and opens his own, falls onto the bed for the second time in twenty-four hours, alone and wanting not to be, and talks himself out of texting. 

____________

They leave so early in the morning that Holster’s breath crystalizes in front of him in the parking lot. He’s not the only one feeling the earliness; one of the frogs, Bitty, is shaking even though he’s bundled up in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Holster opens his arms and Bitty walks into them gratefully. Holster does his best to radiate heat. 

“Thought you were used to the cold now?” he asks. 

Bitty shakes a little more and then a little less. Holster can’t tell if he’s shaking his head or going hypothermic. “This isn’t cold,” Bitty says. His voice is muffled against Holster’s chest. “You Northerners are so backwards. This is torture is what this is.”

Bitty warms up on the bus. Holster holds him close until Bitty falls asleep, tucked neatly under Holster’s arm. Now and then Jack paces the aisle and now and then it looks like he’s checking in on all of them, so Holster nods when they make eye contact and Jack nods back. Somewhere around Worcester someone rips the worst fart Holster’s ever had the misfortune of smelling. He opens the window with his eyes watering. 

Faber’s parking lot lights blink at them an hour later. Holster gently wakes up Bitty and Bitty yawns, wiping the slight drool at the corner of his mouth. 

They unload the bus and grab their bags and Jack and Hall do another sweep to double check that no one left anything. Most of the team peels off to cars and trucks for their dorms and houses. The rest of them, Holster included, pile into the back of Jack’s pickup and make their way to the Haus, where they then hang up their pads and jerseys to dry. Some of them — Lardo and Johnson, mostly — like to smoke a bowl after a tourney weekend because it  _ feels fuckin’ nice, brah. _ Some of them — Jack and only Jack — like to go for a run to shake the road from his legs. The rest of them — Holster, who has common sense — like to crawl into bed. 

He should probably shower. If he covers his nose with the neckline of his shirt he can still smell cocoa butter. But it’s so comfortable under his blankets, and the attic is so warm. He falls asleep dreaming of Oluransi’s laugh.

____________

This is how this goes:

The season rolls on. Holster goes to class and does as much homework as he feels like doing, throws a kegster or two after a bad test or a hard-fought home game, goes to the gym with his teammates. He argues with Jack over  _ Settlers of Catan _ until Johnson bans it on the grounds that  _ someone else would but he doesn’t go here in this universe. _ Tuesdays he sits on the reading room with Lardo and come up with a slew of impractical but incredible ways to prank the LAX bros down the street. Thursdays he works on his on-ice chemistry with Ollie, Wicks, and MacDaniels during practice. Fridays before games, he binges 30Rock and makes PB&Js with Jack and has a belch contest with Lardo outside of whatever locker room they’re using. 

It’s — routine. Steady. He ticks off the days on the calendar he has taped to the wall and pretends the words “Harvard at Samwell” don’t send a thrill up his spine. 

Saturday night, kegster lights swirling all around him and someone else’s tub juice spilling on his shoe and someone else grinding all up on him, Holster types out a new text message. It’s sloppy and he’s drunk and missing him like a lost rib, and this girl wants him to take her upstairs, but he sends it anyway.

It says,  _ 7 days. _

____________________________________

Ransom opens the message on his way to someone else’s hotel room. It burns in his mind long after his clothes are on the floor and someone else’s hands are on him and someone else is kissing him. If Ransom closes his eyes, he can pretend a moment that it isn’t foolish to want this badly. He always wants more at night.

____________

Samwell is gorgeous. Ransom can admit this to himself as he jogs around the campus, but only now; Birkholtz would be infuriatingly smug if he said that outloud, and he doesn’t think any of his teammates would appreciate the sentiment. Aside from Shitty. He thinks, as he rounds a corner and one of the school’s quads opens up before him, that Shitty would probably understand. Neither of them like Harvard all that much, but hey. It’s good on a CV.

This campus was made for the fall. All the trees have gone a glorious mix of red and yellow and orange like breathing fires, and everywhere Ransom looks there’s a college student playing in the leaves or setting up a hammock or playing frisbee. He slows to a stop in front of a gorgeous building and, not for the first time, wishes he’d accepted when they offer him a place here.

Ransom sighs. He should really head back to the hotel; they’d gotten in a few hours ago and early for once, and Mack and Travers had made it clear as hell that they’d be using the day to go over Samwell’s last game. Ordinarily Ransom wouldn’t mind, but ordinarily he wouldn’t be playing against a defenseman he’s spent the last year or so casually fucking.

He puts his earbuds back in and is about to start his music when his phone vibrates. It’s from Birkholtz. 

_ hey, weird question, _ it says, and then the typing bubbles pound in time with his heartbeat.  _ are you jogging around South Quad right now? _

He takes a deep, deep breath before replying.  _ maybe?? _

_ you are. one sec. _

Ransom barely has a chance to look around before Birkholtz bursts out of a building in front of him. All at once he’s very aware of the fact that he’s been running for an hour at least, of how sweaty he is, of the fact that he’d never seen Birkholtz in jeans and a sweater before now, of how pleased Birkholtz looks to be seeing him. Ransom can’t tell if it’s the running or this expression on his face that’s making his legs feel weak. 

“Thought that was you,” Birkholtz says, smiling. “Bus come in early?”

Ransom says, “About three hours ago,” and Birkholtz pulls a mock-offended face. 

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to get away,” he says apologetically. “You know how it is.”

Birkholtz hums. “True.”

They fall into step. Ransom can’t figure out what to do with his arms; if he has them down by his side then he traps any smell, but his pits feel uncomfortable. If they’re above his head then he gets some pit relief but makes everything smelly. On a surface level he knows he’s overthinking this because it’s a distraction from how Birkholtz’s sweater brings out his eyes. Below the surface, though— 

“Have you ever been to Annie’s?” Birkholtz says abruptly, leading them down a concrete set of stairs.

“What’s Annie’s?”

Birkholtz stares at him like he’d just asked who Bad Bob was. “Justin Oluransi,” he says solemnly, “don’t blaspheme.” 

Ransom is opening his mouth to respond when he realizes Adam Birkholtz just said his full name. He misses a step in surprise. Birkholtz catches his arm and pulls him upright before he smashes his nose into the concrete.

They’re face to face on the bottom step and his eyes are so, so blue. Ransom’s never been so aware of the two inches Birkholtz has on him as he is right now and if they were somewhere else — in a bed or shower or locker room or a corner out of sight, sheltered by autumn leaves — or if they were a different couple, if they were people who kissed in the daylight instead of in empty hotel rooms, then Ransom would’ve reached out to brush Birkholtz’s hair away from his forehead and framed his face with his palm. He would’ve done so slowly, giving Birkholtz space to lean in and meet him halfway. Birkholtz has always read him better than anyone else.

Ransom’s Ransom and Birkholtz is Birkholtz, though, so Ransom thanks him and Birkholtz makes some comment about  _ game’s not fun when you’re not playing, _ and the buzz that gives him lingers until they get to Annie’s, which turns out to be a coffeeshop in one of their libraries. It’s still buzzing around his head as Birkholtz pays for their orders and when they sit down.

The barista calls, “Holster?” and Birkholtz gets up. Ransom lets himself appreciate the way his jeans hug his ass and how his shoulders look from behind and indulges in an almost-memory, one where they play on the same line and he’s the one who gets to call out his nickname like that. 

“Is that what your team calls you? Holster?” Ransom asks when he comes back, taking his PSL from Birkholtz’s outstretched hand. 

Birkholtz’s eyes light up. “Sounds nice when you say it,” he says. “Kinda wish I’d told you the first time.”

The first time they’d hooked up, it was quick and they were quiet and Ransom had left his number on a napkin. This last time, it was still quick and they were still quiet, but Ransom has become very familiar with how his last name sounds when it’s said by someone out of breath who still wants to hit all the vowels. A flash of gold from under Birkholtz’s collar draws Ransom’s attention to the hickey he’d left last time. It’s only now starting to fade.

“Does that mean you want me to call that now?” he asks. Asking makes him nervous for a reason he can’t name.

“I really, really do,” Holster says, bumping their cups together. “Does that mean I get to know yours?”

He pretends to consider this while taking a sip of his latte. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “Ransom.”

“Ransom,” Holster says. His nose crinkles the way they do when he’s pleased by something. The last time Ransom had seen this expression, it had been in a locker room, and Holster had kissed him after. “Suits you.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that without revealing too much. Holster doesn’t seem to mind, instead telling him all about the rivalry their hockey team has with the LAX house down the street and how their mascot sometimes accidentally knocks spectators out, which doesn’t make sense until Holster reminds him that Wellie the Well is, in fact, a giant well. 

Ransom tells him some stories in return. He tells him all about MarioKart with Shitty and how Peterson can fall asleep anywhere with minimal effort, and how  _ you can’t tell anyone, no I’m serious, you can’t. _ He pulls out his phone and opens his Instagram to find a photo from the time he met Sidney Crosby and was wearing the wrong jersey, and Holster requests to follow him immediately. He accepts the request and follows back, and when he looks up, Holster’s nose is still crinkled.

It’s nice being out with him like this. Half an hour later, Ransom buys them drinks to go. Holster holds the door for him when they leave and it strikes Ransom that, to anyone who didn’t know better, this might’ve looked like a date.

____________________________________

Jack’s waiting for him on the porch. Holster slows down, mentally checking if he’d done something to piss him off. He hadn’t seen anyone he knew in Annie’s. He’d taken out the trash the way he said he would. He restocked the fridge earlier with the peanut butter and jelly he knows Jack likes. 

“Hey,” Holster says. “What’s up?”

Jack frowns slightly. This is not reassuring. “Nothing really, just noticed you weren’t watching  _ 30Rock _ yet. Was wondering where you were.” 

Ah. They’ve talked about this before; Jack likes to start making his pregame PB&Js when Holster’s halfway through his third episode. Holster doesn’t mind keeping time for him like this most of the time, because most of the time he uses it as a reminder to eat something himself. He checks his phone and is relieved to see they’re not too far behind.

“I stopped at Annie’s,” he says now, and Jack’s forehead relaxes. Holster sees the residual tension in the way Jack’s jaw is still tight, and adds, “Sorry for throwing you off, I’ll go start it now.”

“It’s not that.” Jack twists his mouth. “I’m … nervous … about tonight.”

Holster leans against the banister. “Why?”

“I don’t know, just a feeling,” Jack says. “I was watching tape from our last Harvard game and — is there anything, euh. Going on between you and Oluransi?”

Jack says it funny, like he already knows the answer but is offering to believe a lie. This is the sort of lie that would grow and grow until it gets so large it’s impossible to see around, though, so Holster shifts his weight to make the porch steps squeak. He’s felt too much for too long to want to lie about it now.

“It sounds like you already know the answer to that,” he says finally.

Jack shakes his head and meets his eyes steadily. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

It feels like a giant hand is squeezing him around his stomach. Holster exhales slowly, trying to release some of the pressure. When that doesn’t work he sits on the steps and bends over, planting his hands on the back of his neck. Jack quietly sits next to him, humming a little. 

“I don’t have to know anything,” Jack says. His voice is muffled by the way Holster’s hunched over. “I can go inside and let you be, if you want. Just wanted to let you know that we notice that you’re — different, I guess. Happier. And to give you, you know. Space, if you wanted to talk into it.”

When Holster speaks, he has to clear his throat to get the words out. “How long have you known?”

“Not very,” Jack says. “I thought something might’ve been going on during that tournament Cornell hosted, and then there was that tourney when Lardo fined you for that massive hickey.”

Holster makes a noise that’s too hollow to fully be a laugh. “I was hoping you’d think that was from a puck bunny.”

“We did.” Holster’s distantly aware of the fact that Jack’s looking at him now. “Harvard had rooms at that hotel too, though.”

“Ah.”

There’s a pause in which Holster’s heartbeat pounds out  _ breathe breathe breathe. _ He’s trying. He spares a second to be surprised by the fact that Jack’s the one who called him on this —  _ Jack, _ hockey robot extraordinaire, pieced it together. Lardo must’ve helped him figure it out, but still. He’s kind of impressed.

“How do these things go,” Holster says finally. He drops his hands and sits up and Jack hitches one shoulder in a half shrug. 

Jack says, “Kinda depends on how you want it to go,” and Holster’s phone vibrates an alarm in his pocket. He turns it off, mentally calculating how much time they have before the game. Four hours. If they start now, they can eat and digest PB&Js and not be too full to skate.

“We should go inside,” Holster says. “But, ah. Thank you, for bringing it up. It’s nice knowing I can talk about it with you.”

“I got your back,” Jack says, just like Holster knew he would. He adds, “Yeah, seems like time to get started eh?” and yeah, Holster thinks, maybe it is.

Half an hour later, Lardo curls up next to him on the couch Bitty still won’t touch. He plays with her hair while Jack makes sandwiches in the kitchen, and he lets himself think until thinking hurts too much. When it does, he lifts Lardo’s hand and drops it on his head and she scratches his head without saying anything. She doesn’t ask him about Ransom and Holster doesn’t bring him up.

____________

In the locker room, Holster sucks in his bottom lip before sending the message he’s been agonizing over for the last hour.

_ you’re staying tonight, right? _

He slides his phone into the pocket of his jacket before hanging it up, refusing to check his texts until it’s been at least five minutes. It’s a woefully pathetic amount of time, and yet. Holster has no intention of playing any games with Ransom if he can help it.

Okay. Re-tape the stick, check the skates and their laces, double check that the jersey doesn’t stink like Johnson’s does. It isn’t time to gear up yet. In a few minutes he’ll be expected to hook up his phone to the AUX the way he always does, but he can be quiet for the moment.

He forces himself not to hold his breath as he takes out his phone and forces himself not to blush when he sees Ransom’s reply.

_ you want me bad, _ it says.  _ don’t you. _

_ maybe I do. what now, _ he sends back. 

Ransom’s response is a shot of his abs that makes Holster’s brain go blank in the best sort of way. For two long, glorious minutes, he’s too busy being lost in the picture to realize he’d sent some text along with it.

_ now you figure out what you do when you have me. _

A stick blade taps his shin and Holster jumps. Jack grins at him. 

“Fuck off,” Holster mutters, blushing. He taps him again.

“Getting ready for soccer warmups,” Jack says. “If you’re not busy.”

“I—” Jack’s smirking now. Holster throws a sock at him. “Shut up, okay, I’ll be out in a sec.”

His team files out and Holster zooms in on the photo again. Holster’s seen Ransom naked, has seen him spread out on a bed and has looked up at him from his knees, has seen him wiping his face with his shirt and, once, has seen him in the shower of their favorite hotel. It’s not new, seeing him with his shirt off. It’s new, seeing him like this in his phone. They don’t send photos. 

_ now you figure out what you do when you have me. _ Holster can almost hear that in Ransom’s voice.

_ I’ve got loads of ideas, _ Holster tells him.  _ stick around a little while. you’ll see. _

____________________________________

In the evening light, Samwell’s hockey rink glows. Ransom skates a lazy circle and thinks it’d be pretty easy to fall in love with this place.

This is the best part of getting dressed early, having the sheet to yourself. Ransom lines up in the corner and sprints across the ice, letting the burn in his thighs wash away the noise from the spectators and the knowledge that, in a few minutes, he and Holster will be on the ice together again. 

“Ransy,” Shitty calls, and his moment of peace is over. 

Ransom winds up for a slapshot and pulls up at the last second, sending the puck dancing over the ice. The pass connects easily. Shitty laughs and the sound carries high high high. 

A sharp tap on the glass; Ransom turns, startled, and Holster’s on the other side. Light from the big wall of windows slants across Holster’s face. He looks beautiful like this. The thought hits harder than a check to the boards.

Holster rests a glove against the glass and Ransom mirrors him, memory pulling him back two weeks ago to the hotel room and  _ good fucking game, yeah? _ From the way Holster’s eyes flick down to his lips, Ransom doesn’t think he’s the only one thinking it.

The Samwell team comes out of their locker room behind Holster and Ransom blinks, drops his hand. There’s a moment where they just look at each other. Then Ransom skates away.

“What was that,” Shitty asks him a few minutes later. 

Ransom sinks lower into his stretch, pretending he doesn’t know Holster’s watching him. “What was what?”

Shitty jerks his head toward the other end of the ice. “That little — whatever that was with Birkholtz.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ransom says, poking Shitty in the back with his stick.

Shitty narrows his eyes. “I just want it on record—”

Ransom pushes off the ice and bumps into Shitty like a curling stone, sending them both spinning. “Ask me later,” he says. “I wanna tell you. Not right now, but ask me later.”

“Okay,” Shitty says mildly. His gaze seems to pierce right through Ransom’s pads. “I’ll put it on record.”

____________

They’re so  _ fast. _ Everyone’s a red and white colored blur from the bench, looking like a dance requiring exact steps. Coach Mack taps him on his helmet and he joins the dance as easy as a fish reentering a stream.

This is how this goes:

Sometimes Harvard has the advantage, sometimes Samwell; sometimes Ransom flicks Holster’s stick into the air just because he can, because he knows Holster will elbow him, because later he’ll see what Holster meant when he told him to stick around awhile.

Buzzers ring. Refs blow whistles. Ransom looks up during faceoffs and Holster winks. 

Samwell’s captain scores first in the second period and Harvard answers immediately, Peterson scoring a beauty of a shot topshelf. They go to their locker rooms before the third period and when they take the ice again, Holster steals the puck like he knows exactly what Ransom was planning with it. Being known like this would be nicer if they were on the same team. Ransom chases after him.

It’s a game of miserable and glorious inches. He feels so very alive. 

The crowd chants the fifteen second countdown and Ransom buries a shot in the back of Samwell’s net. His team swarms the ice and pulls him into a massive celly, and it still doesn’t feel sweeter than the way Holster’s looking at him.

____________

Shitty ambushes him the minute he steps into their hotel room. “Okay,” he says, “tell me.”

So Ransom does. He sits on the bed and tells him everything, all about the first time and their last time and the necklace, and how  _ good _ it was to be out with him, how he wants that all the time if he can have it. If he stumbles over his words or clears his throat too much, Shitty’s kind enough not to comment. When he’s done, Shitty hits him with a pillow.

He hits him back. “The fuck was that for?”

“Get out of here,” Shitty says. He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Get  _ out, _ I’m serious, your man’s out there waiting for you to have, like, angsty but romantic and passionate secret sex.”

“It’s not that simple,” he tries, but Shitty shakes his head emphatically. 

“It really is,” Shitty says. “It really, really is. You’ve just gotta get your heart naked.”

“That sounds medically unsafe.”

Shitty groans so loud Ransom would bet money that people in the next room can hear. “You know what the fuck I meant you fucker.”

Ransom tosses the pillow to himself and says, “I know what this is, Shitty. This is — this is a fun time and that’s it. This is just tourneys and just for a few hours and yeah, Annie’s was more than good but that’s all—”

“He asked if you were staying tonight, right?” Ransom nods, and Shitty makes a  _ there you go _ gesture. “Then he wants to see you.”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm you have for this,” Ransom interrupts, “but we don’t do this during regular season games. I don’t want to kick you out—”

“Oh I’d just go bother Peterson, easy—”

“—and there’s no way—”

His phone’s ringing. Holster’s name flashes across the screen.

Ransom stares at it. 

And then, exhaling slowly, Ransom picks up.

____________________________________

The Haus is almost too loud to hear Ransom say, “Hello?” Holster elbows his way through the crowd, mumbling apologies and tripping over feet until he hits the porch and closes the door behind him. It locks enough of the noise away in time to hear Ransom saying, “Where are you, can you hear me?”

“Hey,” Holster says. “Hey, I’m here, I’m at the Haus.”

Something rustles on Ransom’s end of the line and Holster can almost see the hotel room he’s staying at. “Having a party?”

“Bit of a pity party, yeah.” He leans against the banister and considers the tub juice in his cup. “Can I say something?”

“Anything.”

Holster smiles at that. “One of the volleyball girls was giving me the look and I dunno,” he says, “I just — missed you a moment, is all.”

Ransom’s voice is small. Holster can’t tell if that’s his speaker or if it’s a sign of something Holster’s too tipsy to understand. “Missed me? You don’t know me well enough to miss me.”

He sits down on the porch and lands hard. “Sure I do.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Well,” Holster says, “I know you like it when I rub your left shoulder after games. I know you think you always know where I’m putting the puck, because you read me better than my own liney sometimes. I know you always frown when you’re thinking hard about something and I know you’re purposefully not frowning now because you don’t want to be thinking too hard about this. I know you like waffles more than pancakes I know you’re wrong about that, but you like to fill up the squares with your syrup so I can’t argue. I know you like chirping me.” 

Holster pauses, taking a breath. He pokes a knot in a plank in the floor. 

He says, “I know you like saying my last name when I’m kissing you and we both know we used last names because using first names feels like — too much of something, maybe. I know how you look after sex and how you look during it and how you look when you’re blowing me and how you look at Annie’s and during a faceoff. I know you’d beat me at Words with Friends.”

The other end of the line is quiet. Holster holds his phone tighter, as if doing so would turn the phone into Ransom’s hand. He says, as soft as he can, “I know I don’t know you well enough. But I know enough to know that knowing all of you would mean I’d be missing you a lot more than I am.” 

“Oh,” Ransom says. “Oh, I guess you do know some things.”

Holster says, “I pay attention.” 

He doesn’t say  _ I pay attention to the people who are important to me. _ He hopes Ransom hears it anyway. 

“Will you come over?” he says. He sounds too earnest even to himself. “It’s busy enough, no one would see.”

Ransom seems to hesitate. In the background, Holster can almost make out someone saying  _ I swear to Crosby if you don’t get your fine ass over there—  _

“Holster,” Ransom says. “I don’t think—”

His nickname in Ransom’s voice. He leans back and looks up at the stars and thinks butterflies are hatching in his stomach. 

Holster says, “Don’t think,” and Ransom sighs. “Or do, but think about saying yes.”

“Okay.”

Holster nearly drops his phone. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Ransom says, and now Holster hears a smile in his voice. When they hang up, Holster closes his eyes and thinks,  _ yes. _

He finds Lardo sitting with Jack on the Reading Room and Jack raises an eyebrow at him  _ significantly. _ Holster refuses to engage aside from a  _ significant _ look of his own. It takes almost no convincing to get Lardo off the roof and into her car and on the road.

They don’t say much, and it’s a short drive. Lardo drops him off with several arched eyebrows and Holster takes the key from her outstretched hand. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

She says, “Where would you be without me,” and he smiles.

A car pulls into the first row of parking spots. The lights in the front seat turn on as the engine turns off. 

“Hey,” she says, rolling down the passenger side window. Holster ducks down to meet her eyes. Her face is the most serious he’s ever seen it. “Be careful with yourself, Holtzy.”

Ransom’s walking toward him now. Ransom’s walking toward him now, and smiling, and now the butterflies flutter to his throat. Holster swallows around the feeling. “I will be.”

____________

They’re quiet as Holster eases the door open. He does so carefully, overly aware of how close Ransom is to him; he hadn’t brought a jacket, and when their arms touch, Ransom is so warm. 

“Okay,” Holster says in a whisper, typing in the code to turn off the alarm. “Follow me.”

Stepping into Faber is like stepping into the Pond on a warm day, or like a clean sheet of ice, or like swiping open a hotel room. He guides him past the lobby and the players’ hallways, breath in his throat. Possibility soaks into every inch of this place.

“You do this often?” Ransom says quietly. 

They’re in the tunnel next to the locker rooms now and Holster pulls open the door to the benches and he says, “Yeah,” because it’s true. Holster tells him about times he’s broken in to work on his footwork or a late-night scrimmage in the middle of finals week when everything’s too much, how gearing up and shooting pucks into the back of the net is the perfect thing to take the edge off an econ exam. 

Ransom tilts his head the way he does when he’s listening, but he’s staring out the windows with something like — Holster wants to say  _ wonderment _ or  _ longing _ or  _ Ransom _ . All of these words feel good in his mouth. Moonlight dusts the ice like a caress. 

Now, on the bench, Holster says, “Not like this, though.”

“Not like what?” 

Ransom’s leaning against the boards and when he turns, Ransom’s looking at him the same way he looked at the stars. Like there’s something worth seeing. 

“Not with someone like you,” Holster says simply. 

The corner of Ransom’s mouth twitches like the ghost of a smile. “I’ve never done something like this with someone like you either.”

Holster leans forward, elbows on his knees, and Ransom steps closer. If they were anyone else — but they aren’t, are they, they’re  _ them _ and they’re here, and they’re alone, and if he wants Holster can— 

He brushes his knuckles against the back of Ransom’s hand. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey back,” Ransom breathes, and bends down to kiss him. 

____________

They’ve kissed a million and one times. Holster knows how Ransom likes to be kissed now, knows the exact way to bite his bottom lip to make Ransom fist his hand in the front of Holster’s shirt. He knows how to push Ransom’s buttons when he wants to.

This isn’t one of those kisses. This is how this goes:

Holster stands to meet him, taking advantage of his height to cup Ransom’s face and deepen the kiss. It’s a revelation; it’s sweeter than any pie he’s ever tasted. Ransom pushes his hair off his forehead and kisses back like they’re putting the stars in the sky. 

He learns that Ransom laughs a little when he’s kissed like this. It’s nice, that laugh. Holster smiles against his lips.

____________________________________

Later, Holster shows him the roof. Ransom thinks it’d be pretty easy to fall in love with him like this. He’s backlit by the parking lot lights and he’s so kiss-drunk it almost hurts to look at him. There is, Ransom thinks, a dewy halo in his hair.

“Are we allowed to be up here?” Ransom asks, sitting down near the middle. He says it to keep from saying  _ do you know what you’re doing to me right now? _

Holster shrugs and grins and says, “Officially? No.” He sits so close Ransom could hold his hand if he wanted to. “Unofficially, this is how we say goodbye to the seniors at the end of the season. Staying up and telling secrets. Ultimate bonding. Fucking up your back for a week after.”

“You must’ve heard some good ones then.”

“I’d say so.” Holster glances at him sideways. “I have a feeling you know some better ones.”

“I might,” Ransom bumps their shoulders together and doesn’t pull away. 

Slowly, he stretches out his pinky to graze the side of Holster’s hand.

Holster nudges him. “Hey,” he says, twining their fingers together, “don’t start being gentle with me now.”

Ransom laughs in a breathless kind of way and doesn’t say anything in response. The only way to handle this is gently, isn’t it? There’s a conversation they need to have and he thinks they both know it; it settles in the corners of the rooftop, in that halo in Holster’s hair, in the pockets of Ransom’s sweatpants. 

His best secret is this. Them. The fact that he now knows how much moonlight loves the slope of Holster’s nose. The fact that he likes looking.

Night chills everything but the spot where their arms press together. Holster points at shooting stars and his words condense in the air, flitting away off the roof before Ransom can catch them. 

“I almost came here,” Ransom says eventually. 

He feels more than sees Holster’s surprise. “You’ve never told me that.”

“I know. The secret is — sometimes I wish I had.”

Holster touches his chin to turn his head and Ransom lets him. When they kiss, Holster doesn’t kiss him like a secret, doesn’t suck his bottom lip like a secret, doesn’t grip his knee like a secret. Ransom pushes until Holster’s flat on his back and it can’t be comfortable, but Holster slides his hand up the back of Ransom’s thigh when he straddles him and Holster trails his fingertips across the small of his back when Ransom kisses him. When Ransom sits up, Holster keeps hold of his hips. 

Holster says, “We could’ve been on the same line.” His voice is hoarse; he clears his throat. “I keep thinking about that. Playing with you.”

“Best defensive pairing in the ECAC,” Ransom says, and Holster’s nose crinkles.

“Ransom and Holster ruling the points board.” Holster presses his lips to the inside of Ransom’s wrist. “No one would’ve seen us coming.”

Their next kiss feels like falling into another universe and for a moment it’s possible for them. For a moment, Ransom imagines sharing a locker room with him, a bench with him, the ice with him, imagines sneaking into the rink with him, the parties they would’ve thrown together. 

It sounds easy, natural, the way Holster said it. Like their names belong in the same breath.

“Ransom and Holster,” Ransom says. Saying it feels like the start of something. “I like the sound of that.”

____________

The Haus simmers sleepily when they pull up. There’s a mess of Solo cups pooled on the steps leading up to the porch and light puddling out of the open door. Ransom parks the car. There’s a lengthy moment where neither of them moves, like opening the car door would burst this night and leave spaces for reality to fill. 

Ransom breaks the silence first. “You never told me your secret.”

“Didn’t I?” 

He shakes his head, tapping the wheel. “Nope.”

Holster hums. “What time do you have to be up tomorrow,” he says.

“We’re leaving at nine, why?”

“Because,” Holster says slowly, “my secret is that I want you to fall asleep with me.”

This is — oh. “What about your teammates?”

“They won’t care.” Holster’s gaze feels like a physical thing. “They’re probably all drunk or passed out anyway.”

The dash blinks 2:04 AM. Ransom really, really should get back to the hotel, it’s Sunday and it’s a recovery day and it’s a homework day. He has shit he needs to do. Going up with Holster almost definitely means they won’t be sleeping.

He tells Holster all of this and Holster hums again like he’s thinking. Then Holster says, “It’s okay if you can’t, or don’t want to. I know this isn’t what we do.”

Ransom turns in his seat; Holster sounds the way he did on the phone when he was telling him how well he knew him. Like he wants to say something else. 

“Can we talk about — I don’t know how to do this,” Ransom says. He closes his eyes. “This whole night has felt like something unreal that would melt if I held it too tightly, and you’re looking at me with these eyes and you’re saying all these things—”

Ransom likes charts. Lists. Data. He likes when he’s working on an equation and x comes out as y every time. He likes rules, knowing what relationship things have to other things, and he likes consistency. None of today was consistent with the rest of their relationship, and yet. He thinks there are enough data points threaded through the past to support this hope bumping around his chest. He thinks about Holster paying attention. He thinks about what it’d be like to have that all the time. 

He says, “I don’t know how to go back to what we were before this. Not when I know what I could have.”

Holster is quiet when he speaks. “What you could have?”

“I want you, all of you, to myself,” Ransom says softly. “It’s as simple and complicated as that.”

“You already have me.” Holster laughs a little, running his fingers through his hair. “You have for a long time, Rans.”

A light rain falls and collects and beads down the window behind Holster, and through it, the light from the open door seems to call for them. It says,  _ come in out of the rain. _ It says,  _ for a long time. _ Holster’s eyes are saying the same thing.

“Okay,” Ransom whispers.

Holster seems to bite down a smile. “Okay?”

Instead of responding, Ransom unbuckles and steps into the rain. Holster meets him on the sidewalk. A Solo cup rattles like tumbleweed in the wind. 

“So, one thing,” Holster says as they go up the porch steps. “This is probably gonna be a mess.”

Ransom nudges an empty beer bottle with his foot. “Are you saying this isn’t normally how this place looks?”

“Nah.” Pause. “Actually, it’s not that far off.”

The rooms pass by in a blur. He clocks an empty keg in the hallway, a gross-looking couch in their living room, someone’s sock by the stairs. Someone hung up a Canadian flag on the second floor and Ransom lingers, suddenly aware that Jack Zimmermann lives in this house. They haven’t seen anyone so far.

Holster’s room is in the attic. There’s a lightness in climbing these final steps that Ransom never felt in the hotels, or only felt rarely; he isn’t looking past the fact that this is where Holster lives, that in a moment they’re about to be more intimate than they’ve ever been simply because Ransom’s about to see his room. He thinks the lightness is because of that. 

“Here we are,” Holster says. 

It makes sense that this room would be his. There are posters from  _ 30Rock _ and  _ Parks and Rec _ on the wall, a beat up New York Giants hat hanging from a hook on the wall, a random milk jug next to his bed. Econ books and diagrams of hockey plays intermingle on his desk. He seems uncharacteristically nervous as Ransom looks around, standing next to his closet with his hands in his pockets. 

Ransom says, “This is you, huh?” and straightens a framed photo of a dozen boiled eggs. 

“This is me.” Holster rubs the back of his neck. 

“And I,” Ransom says slowly, crossing to sit on his queen bed, “I get all of you.”

Holster plops down on his stomach and all but buries his face in his elbow. “When you talk like that it makes me wanna do a lot more than just fall asleep with you.”

“You just snored a little and you can’t keep your eyes open, Birkholtz,” Ransom says. Holster makes a noise like  _ pfft,  _ flailing an arm until it lands on Ransom’s leg. His ears are going red like they do when he’s embarrassed and/or turned on. It’s ridiculous that Ransom thinks he’s cute like this. 

Fuck, Ransom likes him.  _ Fuck, _ Ransom might more-than-like him. 

“Is it okay if I take my shirt off?” he asks. 

Holster opens an eye. “It’s encouraged.”

“To sleep, dumbass.” Ransom takes his shirt off.

“Still.” Holster lazily peels off his sweatshirt too, chain glinting around his neck. Ransom wants to kiss him. “I usually sleep in boxers. Is that—?”

“That’s fine,” Ransom breathes, stepping out of his sweatpants.

“Are you folding those? Who are you?”

“A functioning human being?”

And it feels almost normal, chirping him like this, falling into bed with him like this, being held by him like this. Holster steals all the blankets and Ransom takes the pillows and it’s too warm for spooning, so they don’t. Instead, they tangle their legs together and Ransom loops his finger in Holster’s chain and Holster teases the skin behind his knee.

“I have another secret,” Holster mumbles. “I like having you here.”

Ransom whispers, “I like being here,” and Holster smiles sleepily. 

The sheets smell like him. Ransom hugs his pillow closer.

____________________________________

Something in his room is beeping. Holster blindly slaps for his alarm clock and hits snooze, but the beeping continues. It has to be one of their phones. Groaning, he stretches out and blinks blearily, fumbling for his glasses. 

When Holster twists around, Ransom isn’t in his bed. His stomach lurches unpleasantly before he realizes that Ransom’s shirt is still neatly folded on the back of Holster’s desk chair. He exhales, going back to patting down his sheets. The beeping sounds close enough that he should be right on top of it, almost, but he still can’t find it. 

The door creaks open a few minutes later. Holster focuses on finding the phone, suddenly nervous.

“Sorry,” Ransom whispers. The bed dips when he sits down; he covers Holster’s hand with his own and peels back the blankets with the other, unearthing his phone. He stops the alarm. “Thought I’d turned it off.”

In the new quiet, Holster’s heart is beating too loud. When he turns, Ransom’s wearing his New York Giants sweatshirt. Something under Holster’s ribs rejoices at the sight of it. 

“This is a good color on you,” he says. He flicks one of the drawstrings, and Ransom smiles.

“Thought about keeping it,” Ransom says. His eyes brighten at whatever expression Holster’s making. “Your nose always scrunches like that when you’re pleased about something.”

No one has ever told him this before. Holster tells Ransom this and Ransom says  _ I pay attention, too, _ and Holster dearly doesn’t want him to leave. He thinks Ransom will be a hard person to miss.

The clock says it’s 10:20 AM. Holster’s about to ask him about missing the bus when Ransom says, “What if I don’t go back yet.”

Butterflies fly through his body when their knees touch. “You’d stay?”

“Yeah. If that’s alright. I can get an Uber too, but it felt nice to sleep in.” Ransom shrugs in a way that would almost be casual if Holster didn’t know him. 

Holster says, “I want you to stay. I don’t wanna let go of you yet.” 

“Yeah?” 

In response, Holster slides back until he’s flush against the wall at the head of his bed. Ransom watches until Holster reaches for him, pulling Ransom into his lap. Ransom’s so soft in his sweatshirt. 

“Have you figured it out yet?” Ransom says, spreading his hands over Holster’s bare chest. His fingers are cool on his skin. Holster shivers.

He says, “Figured what out?”

It’s hard to think of anything but Ransom on top of his. Ransom, in his sweatshirt. Ransom, wanting all of him. Holster inches the sweatshirt up deliberately, steadily, until Ransom takes it off himself. 

“What you’re gonna do,” Ransom says slowly, folding the sweatshirt and setting it on Holster’s bedside table, “now that you have me.”

Holster pushes on Ransom’s shoulders until he falls backward, breathless as a sigh, and then Holster takes his time relearning him, kissing up his stomach and chest and neck until Ransom’s saying  _ kiss me already Holster, fuck. _ Holster does. When they part, he pins Ransom’s wrists above his head and sucks on his bottom lip, biting gently the way he knows Ransom likes.

“I have some ideas,” he says against Ransom’s neck seconds later. 

Ransom says, “I like you here,” and then, freeing his hands, rolls them until Holster’s looking up at him from his back. “I like you better here.”

God, Holster loves this. He pulls Ransom closer and trails his fingers down down down. 

____________

They take turns stepping underneath the showerhead. Ransom chirps him for his 3-in-1 and in this moment it’s easy to see this working in the future, hotels and locker rooms and his room and the shower after. There’s another away series at Harvard and a St. Lawrence tourney at the end of the season. It’s not a far drive from Samwell to Cambridge. Holster doesn’t wanna give this up. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks once they’re dry and dressed and on the steps down from the attic. “Have you ever been to Jerry’s brunch?”

Ransom sighs. “No.” 

Holster drops his phone down the stairs. Someone from below says,  _ stop dropping shit Holster.  _ “You haven’t been to  _ Jerry’s? _ I can’t believe—”

“You know your restaurants aren’t chains, right? Like, it’s perfectly reasonable to  _ not _ have gone to—”

“You’ve been here before! You’ve played here before! No one googled ‘best brunch places?’”

Ransom rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tucked away next to his mouth. “My last tour was summer before freshman year,” he says. “They didn’t do the greatest job.”

“Good thing you’ve got me,” Holster says, shaking his head. He starts down the stairs. “We have a lot of ground to cover today, fuck.”

He snags his phone from the bottom of the steps and pointedly ignores Lardo poking her head out of her room. His phone lights up with a text to the group chat saying,  _ this is a massive fine, Birkholtz. MASSIVE.  _ Jack laughs softly from his room.

“I hate them,” Holster says, face feeling much too warm. He tilts his phone so Ransom can read it easier. 

Ransom says, “You’re gonna owe them a lot of money.” 

Holster says, “I’m okay with that, actually,” and meets him in a kiss that nearly makes his knees weak. Ransom touches their foreheads together when they separate. Holster all but skips down the stairs.

“Okay, Birkholtz,” Ransom says now, opening the front door in their wrecked hallway, “Where to?”

He’s something beautiful framed against the dewy sky like that. Holster’s gonna tell him later, he thinks. The look on Ransom’s face tells him they’ll have time for a lot of things later, if they want to. It’s as simple and complicated as this: Holster wants. It’s as easy and groundbreaking as this: they both do.

They have the whole day ahead of them, and tomorrow, and the day after. Holster takes Ransom’s hand.

“Everywhere,” he says, and they step forward together.

________________________________________________________

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! I've been playing with this idea for awhile :)
> 
> lemme know what you think in the comments or [come find me on tumblr!](https://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com/ask)


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